Enemy Agents, page 2
Moving as quietly as possible, hoping that his camouflage was working, Quarrel advanced on the structure. He didn’t have a plan. While the other four team members had huddled to hash out a strategy, Quarrel had ran off to the side of the field of play and began his crawl toward the deck alone. This game was only ten minutes and the defenders knew they were coming. There was no time to plan, only to act, and Quarrel intended to win this thing on his own and guarantee that he passed the program.
The deck was pretty basic: an elevated wooden platform, six by twelve, with a stairway in each corner. The walls of the deck were four feet high, easily enough to hide behind, so the attackers would be at a severe disadvantage as they climbed the stairs. The instructor, Jack, sat on a sort of lifeguard chair behind the flagpole, elevated higher than the rest of the deck. He said nothing at any point in the game, other than declaring victory for one team or the other. Hall’s chair pivoted so he could see all directions, observing the field of play. Three other instructors, dressed in bright orange like hunters, supervised from the forest below.
Quarrel pulled himself along the forest floor, watching the stairways on the deck in case any guards were watching. He saw nothing. With fifteen feet to go he broke out in a run, sprinting not to the stairs but underneath the deck, where he hoped the guards wouldn’t be able to see him. There was no sound of footstep above, which didnot mean he hadn’t been seen, only that the defenders were smart enough to stay quiet.
Two other attackers were already there, having apparently chosen this as a rally point. Erica Gibbons, from Quarrel’s office, and a skinny American named Jones. Quarrel raised one finger to them.I got one kill. The others both shook their heads. So there might still be four defenders. He checked his watch. Six minutes fifty seconds. If any other attackers were alive, they’d have to show up now. No one came.
They spread out, each to a different staircase. The combination of their heavy boots and the wooden stairs would make a stealthy approach impossible. Their best bet would be to storm three sides at once, hoping to overwhelm the defence. As long as one attacker made it to the flagpole, their team would win. Dying didn’t matter. The mission mattered. Nothing else.
Jones gave theadvance signal and all three attackers pounded up their stairs, running hard and making tons of noise. Quarrel turned his body to the doorway before he reached the opening so that when he emerged, the defender was right in his sights.
Twip. The defender went down. Directly in front of Quarrel, a second defender shot Jones. Quarrel shot the man in the back. The defender gave an annoyed shrug and looked over his shoulder at Quarrel before he too lay down, wanting to know who had shot him. On the far side, Gibbons had taken out her target before he could shoot. That left the fourth corner, the stairway that nobody had taken. There was a defender here as well; apparently their plan had been to guard all entrances, with the extra man, Hershey, roving through the woods. The last defender turned around, surprised to find enemies behind him. For a split second his focus was split between Quarrel and Gibbons. He made his choice and lined up Quarrel, just as both attackers unleashed a barrage of red paint at him. He went down.
Finally, Quarrel was able to break silence. “That’s it. We got all five. Game over.”
Sitting on his elevated chair, Hall said nothing. Quarrel smiled as he walked over to the flagpole. All that was left was to lower the flag and he’d not only have won the game, he’d also be one of just two survivors. That had to help with getting one of those five certificates.
He never heard the shot, just felt the familiar sting of a paintball in the back. He turned, confused, and saw a defender through the opening at the northwest staircase. Someone was still out there, approaching fast. Maybe it was a twist on the game: an unknown surprise to test the team who thought they had won. Quarrel was confused, but he dropped facedown on the floor, making sure to turn himself so he could watch the stairs that he expected the enemy to enter from. He wanted to yell at Gibbons to hurry up and lower the flag, but the dead can’t speak. Instead she took a defensive position by the doorway, waiting for the attacker to enter.
Only a few seconds later he heard another shot. It came from behind him, opposite where he was looking. The new defender had somehow made it up the stairs in silence, and placed a paintball between Gibbons’ shoulder blades. Above them, Jack Hall blew hard into a whistle.
“Fuck!” she shouted, turning around.
With the game over, Quarrel rolled over and sat up. The new defender was in sock feet—he’d removed his boots in order to slip up the stairs. Otherwise, he was the same Pete Hershey that Quarrel had shot five minutes earlier. But this time Hershey’s chest showed no sign of paint.
“I thought you said you got him!” shouted Gibbons.
“I fucking did!” Speaking to Hershey now, he shouted “I shot you three times in the chest. You’re done.”
“This chest?” Hershey tugged on the thin camouflage jersey he wore—they had each been given one, in slightly different colours to make it easier to know friend from foe. “Because I don’t see any paint.”
“So where’d you steal the extra jersey from?”
By now the other two attackers and the three referees were filing into the structure, drawn by the whistle.
“Did you see this guy shoot me? Did you?” he demanded of the referees as they climbed the steps. “Didn’t think so since it never happened.” The judges shared a look between them, each shaking their head.
“Oh fuck off,” said Quarrel, shoving Hershey.
“Enough!” shouted Hall, jumping down from his perch. “Did anyone see anything to suggest that this guy was ever killed?”
The judges hadn’t seen it.
“Then defenders win.”
“Horse shit,” said Quarrel.
“The point of the exercise was teamwork. Who lives and dies was unimportant, only the mission. Your team never accomplished your goals, so you lose.”
Quarrel walked away, shaking his head. Jack shouted at him. “Got something to prove? You’re on defence this time. There are clean jerseys for the attackers back at the start, and new ones for the defenders under my chair. Get clean, reload, and the next game starts in ten.”
#
Nineteen minutes later, Quarrel was alone on the deck, waiting for something to happen. Well, not quite alone. Jack was up on his high chair, watching and judging, his eyes revealing nothing to Quarrel.
Quarrel’s team had opted for the opposite tactic to the one that Hershey’s team had used. They sent four of their members out into the woods, hopefully to ambush the attackers. Quarrel was left alone at the base, the last line of defence if an attacker slipped by or if the defenders were all dead. He had drawn the stay-here-and-wait job mainly because the other defenders on his team resented him for costing them Round One.
An hour earlier, the forest had seemed quiet except for the sound of the wind. Now, Quarrel heard everything. Scurrying in the wet leaves, chittering of small rodents, and the ever-changing wind whipping the still-bare branches. There were no bird calls, as it was too early for them to be back up north.
And finally, footsteps.
Front side.
Quarrel backed up against the rear wall, so that he’d have both of the front stairs in sight. The attacker would see him from the stairs, but that was better than having his back turned to one of the potential entrances, especially after Hershey had just demonstrated how to get up the steps in silence.
Quarrel kept his gun raised, safety off, his eyes flicking back and forth to the two stairways. Finally, there was a shadow in the stairs to the left. He lined up his sights and waited. Inhaled. He’d fire on the exhale. A shoulder poked around the corner. A shoulder dressed in the green and brown camo of the defending team. Could be one of his own. Could be Hershey in another stolen jersey.
“Sing out!” shouted Quarrel.
“It’s a trap.” Gibbons’ voice. “He’s behind me.”
Then she jerked forward and up the stairs, revealing her wrists tied together in front of her with a plastic cable tie. Hershey was behind her, using her as a human shield. He was just small enough that he was safely hidden behind the slim woman. He kept her in place with a hand gripping the back of her collar. He held a small paintball pistol that Quarrel hadn’t seen before. It would be terrible at range but considering that Gibbons was only six inches from the muzzle, it would hurt like hell. Worst of all, Hershey had stripped Gibbons of her mask so her head was exposed. A paintball to the face would cause an injury, regardless of who fired, and in the wrong spot (the eye) that injury would be permanent.
“Just let me lower the flag and she’s fine.”
“Or I could just shoot her and have a clear line of fire at you.”
“You’d have to shoot her in the head to make she’d drop that quick.” He spoke to Gibbons, gloating, “You don’t want Chrissy to shoot you in the face, do ya?”
“Fuck off,” she muttered under her breath. She was clearly embarrassed to be in this position, but they were supposed to act like there were real guns in play.
“Walk to the flagpole. Slowly.”
She took a step. Quarrel watched her face for any sign. He could see a few inches of Hershey’s grinning face, but dared not fire. Paintball guns aren’t as accurate as the real thing. A minuscule dip in air pressure could throw the ball off course and hit Erica in the face – break her orbital bone or nose, or one of those big brown eyes – no, he couldn’t risk it just to beat Hershey in a game. He could feel himself sneering in frustration,Hershey gets another feather in his cap at my expense, but made effort to hide his seething.
They were at the flagpole now, and Hershey had a problem. He needed one hand to hold his human shield in place, and another to hold his gun. He couldn't lower the flag unless he grew a third hand. He jerked Gibbons’ collar. “Lower it.”
Gibbons nodded, but before reaching forward, she slipped her fingers under the jersey, fumbling at the waistband on her pants.
“Lower it, or I shoot Chris,” Hershey sneered, turning his gun on Quarrel.
Erica seized the moment. Spinning hard out of Hershey’s grip, she dropped her body while raising her hands, now holding a white object that registered only as a blur to Quarrel. She slashed her hands at Hershey’s face and fell away, stumbling.
There was a bright red line slashed across Hershey’s neck. She had slit his throat.
Above them, Hall blew the whistle. “Defenders win.”
“What the fuck?” Hershey shouted, wiping at his neck and smudging the ink from Erica’s Sharpie.
Jack jumped down from the elevated chair and smiled. “Now that was exciting. Usually it’s the same-old, same-old. Hostage situation. Entertaining at least.”
“No way does she win. There are no knives in paintball!” Hershey’s voice went up an octave as he whined.
Hall patted Erica on the shoulder. “There are also no pistols in the attacking team’s loadout. You changed the rules, so don’t complain when she follows.” Hershey gaped, but had no comeback. Whining to Jack Hall was one thing, but even Hershey knew not to piss him off.
The four of them waited for a few seconds, listening to the suddenly loud forest as the other players and referees came back to the platform. While they were still alone, Hall turned to Quarrel.
“You should have shot her.”
“He took her mask off.”
“This flagpole might represent a nuclear weapon. You can’t let him get that close. In a real life situation you shoot the hostage in the head and don’t stop firing until the hostage-taker is down. Only way to be sure.”
“But he took her mask off. I mean, this is only a simulation.”
“You think the real bad guys play fair? What if they take your wife—”
“—not married—”
“Ok, they take your adorable little niece or your grandma or something. You think she’s worth more than New York City? Worth more than Winnipeg or wherever-the- Hell hell you’re from?”
“You want me to shoot my adorable imaginary niece in the head?” As he said that, Quarrel realized that the rest of the class had gathered behind him.
“Everyone,” said Hall, “we just had ourselves an honest-to-God hostage taking in here. Thanks to some very impressive work by Miss Gibbons, the situation was averted, and the defending team won. In the first game the winning team had one survivor. In this game the winning team had two. So therefore Team Beta gets the win for this morning’s exercise.” The three other team members, the ones who had died in both rounds, grinned and circled Gibbons, giving pats on the back and celebratory fist-bumps. Quarrel, who had also technically survived the round, had to wait for them to notice him before they would congratulate him.
“Now if you’ll all just wait about five minutes, I’m going to go tally up my marks for the week and see whether or not any of you pukes actually graduate from the program or not. Then I’ll leave, and you can all have lunch and talk about how much you hate me.” There was a small chuckle in the class. Hall headed down the stairs, waving one of the referees to join him.
Quarrel felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, expecting Gibbons. It was Hershey. “Good job man, you survived defending. Just like I did in the first game.”
Quarrel tried not to seem angry. He still had to work for this guy, so telling him off wasn’t a good plan. “Sure man, good game,” was all he could muster. They had been at this for six and a half days, and the idea that Hall was currently writing names on certificates sent his stomach into a spin. He looked around the group. Everyone had the same expression of trying not to look nervous. Everyone except Hershey, who was trying to look at his own neck in the reflection on his watch.For a moment, Quarrel locked eyes with Gibbons. She bit her lip and shook her head, a nonverbalI’m not gonna make it.
Finally, Hall returned. He carried a manila folder so you couldn’t see how many certificates he had with him.
“OK everybody. It’s been a good week. You all made your agencies and branches proud, and I’ve already been in touch with each of your supervisors with good things to say. But this program has a high standard. That’s why it exists. This isn’t a vacation. It’s a proving ground. Being good here isn’t enough and you knew that before you came. You had to be the best. And when I reward only the best, it means that anything less goes home empty-handed. So let’s get to it.”
Quarrel exhaled through his mouth, waiting for the worst and hoping for the best.
“First up—Peter Hershey.” There was a smattering of applause that Quarrel forced himself to join. Hershey smiled broadly and stepped forward to accept his certificate. He shook Hall’s hand—the first time all week anyone had actually shaken hands with the grizzled, legendary operative.
“Next,” Hall wasn’t wasting time. “The Bushwacker.” A military guy named Bush stepped forward, laughing at the name. Bush had excelled in the earlier challenges, although he had died quickly in the role-play. He took his place next to Hershey, who had presumptuously stayed on Hall’s side of the platform. Bush happily accepted his certificate and shook Hall’s hand.
Hall looked down to his folder again. “Wouldn’t you know it, another one of the Canadians.” Quarrel’s eyes shot up from the floor to Hall, then quickly to Gibbons, who was already returning the look.
“Erica Gibbons.”
Quarrel felt his lungs deflate, but smiled and clapped for his co-worker, and stuck out his hand for a high-five as she walked by. She joined the other winners and soon everyone’s attention was back on Hall, waiting to see the next name to be called. Hall looked into the folder once again. “There’s one more certificate in here.” He held it up, the blank back side facing the class. Quarrel tried not to stare a hole through it. Hall continued, “ . . . and it’s blank. Nobody else is graduating this week.” He flipped the page over, showing the horizontal line where Quarrel had wanted his own name to be written.
“This blank certificate will be here next year. If you think you can honestly do better, it’ll be waiting for you.” As Hall finished his speech, he was looking straight at Quarrel. At least, Quarrel thought so. Hall finally turned his head to the three graduates. “Congrats. Enjoy the lunch, drive safe. And remember the lessons we learned this week. This training will save your life.” With that, Hall walked to the back stairs and disappeared.
“Alright everyone, back to the barracks for burgers and beer,” shouted one of the other supervisors.
As the students filed out, pulling off the jerseys and stretching their necks, Quarrel just stood there watching Gibbons and Hershey. Here, he was one of seven who didn’t pass. But in a day it would only be the tree of them, two who passed and one who failed. He knew they were going back to the same office in Ottawa, where he’d be the only one who didn’t graduate. Carol was going to be disappointed.
After the beer and burgers and packing their bags, the three Canadians hit the road. It was a ten-hour drive back to Ottawa, and they had to get in at least most of it today. They checked into a roadside motel that night, three hours from home but too tired to continue. They booked three rooms, all in a row, and were pretty sure they were the only guests.
As Quarrel lay in bed, reflecting on his own failure and guessing how Carol would react, the rhythmic thumping of the headboard next door made him sick.Goddamn Hershey, probably going to brag about that too.
3
The saltwater spray hitting William Thorpe’s face made him wince, both from the shock of the cold and the salt in his eyes. He had to close his eyes and shake his head to get the salt away from his eyes, but his hands never wavered—one hand shoving the boat’s throttle forward and the other holding the steering wheel steady. He rocked as the boat bounced through the wake of the larger vessel, but Thorpe’s little speedboat never wavered from its course.
